“That goes, Usak,” he said. Then with sudden passionate energy: “I’m no kid now,” he cried. “The winter trail I guess needs menfolk, not women or kids. I’m with you, sure. And I play my hand right through. Say, I go, but I go right. Ther’s goin’ to be no play. The work that’s yours is yours. The work that’s mine’s mine. An’ I don’t let any feller do my work on the trail. Not even you. Does that go? Say it right here an’ now.”
The smile that changed the Indian’s expression so little was there under cover of the shadows of night.
“Him go all time, sure. You big boss whiteman mak him trade by Placer. You say all time the thing we do. Oh, yes. That’s so. Usak—Sho!”
The man broke off and his final exclamation had in it the curious hiss so indicative of a mind started profoundly and unpleasantly. He had halted on the summit of a high ground roller and stood pointing out ahead, somewhere on the opposite shore of the river where the twinkling lights of camp fires were burning brightly. He stood awhile in deep, concentrated contemplation, and his arm remained out-flung for his companion’s benefit Clarence, too, was gazing at the amazing sight of the twinkling, distant camp fires.
The same thought was in the mind of each. But it was the uncompromising spirit of the savage that first gave it expression.
“Euralian!” he said, in a tone of devastating hatred.
Instantly the youth in the other cried out.
“Mum! She’s alone with the kids!”
Bill Wilder kicked the embers of the fire together. Then he leant over to the driftwood stack and clawed several sticks from the pile. He flung them on the fire and watched the stream of sparks fly upward on the still night air.